Naturally, he knew the FBI would be all over David. From a distance Matt had seen their helicopter. That was fair; it was expected. He had played his game and they had played theirs. Now it was time for hardball, and although they had yet to realize it, they were not pitching. He was.

Nothing he had done so far was innovative. The FBI had decades of experience dealing with kidnappers who tried to collect ransoms. In virtually all cases the kidnappers failed because the Bureau had set plans to deal with every contingency. Even if a child snatcher used a stooge and threatened to kill the child if the stooge was not released with the money, the Bureau did not care. They invariably tracked the stooge to the real villain. The difficult point in all ransom schemes was the money pickup.

Yet Matt had figured out a way to negate that difficulty.

Right in front of their eyes. The poor bastards.

Matt had last communicated with David while standing on land. Now—two miles from shore and treading water—he had to guess how close David was to the marina. He figured the guy must be near the parking lot. He turned on his phone—he had purchased both cells hot, south of the border—and dialed the phone he had given David. The guy answered quick.

“Hello?”

Matt spoke through the voice modulator enclosed in the plastic bag. “There’s a note under the garbage can in front of Keel Restaurant. Read it, follow the instructions.”

“You listen to me, buddy. I’m sick and tired of following your—”

Matt hung up. David had complained several times during the day. He was that kind of guy—probably liked to hear himself fart. Matt knew David would obey—he was afraid not to. In minutes he would be even more fearful. In the recorder Matt carried was a tape of Jimmy screaming. Matt had recorded it when Jimmy had been suffering an innocent case of gas, but David would not know that. David would recognize the sound of his son in pain, and at the crucial moment, the asshole would dance like a puppet.

Matt waited. He had on a full-body wet suit and a slightly overfilled air tank. He had rented the gear south of the border. The FBI would never catch him by backtracking his preparations.

Raising his binoculars, Matt watched as David steered the boat away from the harbor. Matt knew from comments Amy had made long ago that David was a skilled sailor. The compass reading he had given David in the note would cause David to pass two hundred yards north of his present position. Matt wanted the distance—close but not too close. He would complete the last leg to the loot underwater.

Matt raised the phone and modulator to his mouth and called again. David was annoyed. “Do you have my son on Catalina?” he demanded.